


National City Noir: The Curious Case of Kara Danvers

by JamCov



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Detective Noir, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamCov/pseuds/JamCov
Summary: The night started like any other. An out of work Private Investigator scraping by.The difference on this winter night was the mysterious missing persons case that wound up under the door.Kara Danvers was missing and could only be found by diving into the seedy world of National City. A gallery of some its major players coming into the fold for whatever was going down.No two cases are ever the same, this one was quite the wild ride.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. The Office

**Author's Note:**

> 1950s Noir AU based extremely loosely around an OC of mine from a different series. Think vintage, throw on some smooth jazz, put a black and white filter on your screen and enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: The antique style of the genre lends itself to certain outdated tropes and views, I've done my best in updating these with a more modern spin while still staying true to the themes and stylings. Want to make it clear that the story isn't representative of my values, I'm simply trying to emmulate the writing style and the feel of the1950s.

They say this town is a place where you can make something of yourself, where you’re one lucky break away from being the next big deal. Whoever these people are aren’t wrong, they don’t know that most of the time someone walks from away from a big deal worse off. I walk down my same old grimy street toward my office. The dregs of these big deals lurking in the gutters to beg for what I got spare, like every day I ignore them. These aren’t my people, I just go where I need to go. Sure I could help, but being the giving type is a fast way to lose the shirt on your back or the shoes on your feet. Personally, I prefer to keep mine. This town can carve you up and leave nothing left, it’s a lot more literal if you have nothing to shield you as you crunch through the sea of broken bottles and cigarette butts this part of town is built off of. The guys at the top don’t care for the parts they don’t need to see, so why should anyone else?

I get to my office easily enough each day, fumble for my keys and adjust my hat as even the crooked front feels the need for fight. Some days there’ll be someone waiting in a dark corner to jump whoever they see, they know to leave me alone. Life here is risk-reward, they see a cheap suit in a run-down office and know the fight isn’t worth the prize. It’s just the way I like it. I slammed the door behind me, naturally it bounces back. Even when its already lost it still kicks, same mistake a lot of people make here. A second whack always does the trick, putting it in its place until the inevitable rematch when I leave. I walk through the wooden corridor and its flickering lights, never had the mind to replace the bulbs. Wouldn’t make a difference if I did. I greet the desk outside my office, there for the assistant I’ve never had.

“Monarch, Private Detective,” was etched into the glass of the door. The letters were brazen and bold once, now they’re faded and a little washed up. A parallel for most who come here, I at least like to pretend I’m not one of them. This door has that same old whining creak as it swings open, I don’t pay it much mind. I take a peek out on to the street through my blinds, I blow out the last drag of my cigarette as the sun makes it journey ever downward. Light itself shying away as broken streetlamps tried and failed to illuminate what’s left. I feel my front pocket, I know there’s nothing in it except an empty hip flask. A smart man would keep some essentials spare in his desk. As I rummage through it I’m reminded that I am not a smart man, the drawers having nothing to show except an empty bottle of whiskey and next month’s rent. Emptiness seemed to be quite the theme for this office of mine, empty desk, empty open case file and empty man, how cliché. At least the ash tray had its fill, one of these days I’ll empty that thing. Though without that burnt smell I don’t know if my office would truly fit in with this side of town. Shouting was coming from outside, some big to do about someone owing someone else money. Big words flew around and if the night was in the mood, so would bullets. For some people that would be something to be concerned about, but for the likes of me. That was National City.

With not a whole lot else to do apart from wait for someone to knock on that door and throw a job my way, I took in the view of my office. Same stained ceiling, same empty desk and the same old dust gathering in the corners. Something new jumped out at me, an envelope was on the floor. I shuffled over, throwing my hat to the coat stand. I missed, it quietly plummeted to the floor into one the pools of dust. I could always pick it up later. My coat landed true, though it was precarious and would likely take a dive in a few minutes. I was satisfied enough, I always had a better aim with that thing anyway.

I bent down to pick up this intrusion to my office, whoever left it had slid it under the door. Apparently my front door only puts up a fight if you have a key for it, I always knew that thing had it in for me. The envelop itself was thick and blank. No smell to it, that was usually a sign that whoever left it wasn’t after attention. No stray cigarette or aftershave making its way over suggested a level of care people don’t usually think about. I tore it open, I rarely managed to open an envelope without wrecking the whole thing. Not the best trait for a man in my line of work. The thickness explained itself quickly enough, cash, and a lot of it. That could wait, there was more to be seen. Specifically, a photo and a short note. The note was in blue ink and had the type of handwriting you never saw in these parts, a lot of loops and flourishes. Sure it was fancy, but also a hell of a lot harder to read.

“Kara Danvers is missing. There’s a photo and $500 dollars. An extra $2000 is waiting for you when she’s found and safe.”

No signature or letterhead were to be seen, a blank envelope and anonymous cash. For most, a job like this would send them running. Big money and no names screams set-up from a mile away, even a rookie with the dimmest bulb could tell you that one. Nevertheless, I had a look at the photo. At first it just looked like even more of set-up. Fair-haired, pretty young thing, glasses and an innocent dress sense. The type of girl who moves in from a backwater country town, National City would chew her up and spit her out before she could even order her first drink. If I had any way to write back to this benefactor, I’d simply tell them that this girl ran off with the first guy claiming to be a big shot or she was lying somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. I chuckled to myself, thinking whether to ditch the cash or play my luck and keep it somewhere out of sight. These thoughts faded away fast, something about the picture stuck in my head. I took a second look at it. Common sense told me to ditch this case in the first public trashcan I could find and spend some of my rent money on a new bottle of whiskey. Instead, this niggling instinct kept me holding that note. There was more to this dame and I wanted to know what it was. Not to mention an extra two grand wouldn’t hurt, it would keep whatever the hell I was doing afloat for a long time yet.

I laid down the cash, letter and photo on my desk. I liked to pretend that glancing over them more would strike me with inspiration, or some common sense would kick in to sweep it all away. I leaned back in my chair and swung my feet up. I felt around my waistcoat pocket, the rough feel of it would be one of defeat for another man. For me the cheap suit was a victory, more of a reminder to stay on my toes over the expensive one that I hidden away somewhere in this wretched haven of mine. After some lazy pawing I found what I was looking for. The weight of the packet and the light patter of it bouncing around told me there was a solitary cigarette left in the damn thing. I flipped the lid and shrugged to myself. I was already out of whiskey, it seemed poetic to be out of cigarettes too. The match I struck up did a lot more to light the room than the sad bulb hanging from the ceiling. Whatever brand this was had rubbed off the packet a while ago, I dragged in the earthy taste of apathy and watched the smoke dance up to make its mark on the already patchy ceiling.

My eyes flitted between my empty open case file and the items on my desk. The dissenting voice of reason ran through my head. The overabundance of anonymity and information when it came to a missing person screamed one thing alone. This Danvers girl was dead and a putz was needed to start poking around. Said putz would follow a trail of breadcrumbs to the body, having asked too much and conveniently found in the wrong place at the wrong time. National City police department would swoop in, plant some evidence, lean on the putz ‘til he confesses and then pat themselves on the back for a big solve and bigger headline. Whoever was funding this little endeavour would get to see that pretty little thing’s photo on the front page. Reading about the creep behind bars and that the case was closed, absolved of sin for a mere $500. I took another drag and looked at the faded letters on my door, a place like mine certainly aired the desperation of a man who would fall for this play hook, line and sinker. No-one would care to fight for my innocence and National City would merrily claim another into its void. I slammed my hand onto the note, ready to scrunch it up for target practice with the bin in the corner of the room. I stopped myself, it was good quality paper. Sturdy and smooth, the kind any rich idiot with deep pockets would chuck around at degenerates like me without a second thought. I left the note be, gratifying it with another few moments of life as that ridiculous instinct dragged my gaze kicking and screaming to the photo again. It was those damn glasses.

Most men would look at this wide-eyed country girl, conclude naivety and think nothing more of it. The Sunday best dress-sense, tight ponytail and wide frames portraying the innocence of someone who had never known the stylings and cruelty of National City. These men were fools, never looking past the surface. A smart woman would know exactly this and play up to it, a perfect veil to fly under the radar. It was common folly of man to underestimate the fairer sex, they never picture the girl without the glasses outside of primitive fantasies. I looked at the photo at it seemed to be looking back, a look behind the glasses that said she knew the score. Whoever this girl was wouldn’t fall for the average trappings of this hellhole, she was alive, no doubt about it.

I sucked in the last drag of my last cigarette, thinking on the one question that remained. If this little mystery was worth the hassle. The ash meandered down into the overflowing ashtray as I thought of all the reasons to leave this case alone. I put out my cigarette with intent, blowing up a puff of ash that tickled my nose. I swiped most of the cash into a desk drawer, the rest went into my wallet. I took one last glance at Kara Danvers before pocketing that photo too. The chair rolled back when I stood up, bouncing harshly against the back wall. I groaned as I bent down to pick up my hat and caught my coat just as it had made the decision to slide off the peg. I was once again merrily ignoring the path of the smart man. I took one last glance back at my sad, little office before my inevitable battle with the door would begin. That anonymous note now sat merrily in my open cases file. It was time to begin, it was back into the cold embrace of National City.


	2. The Grind

Step one was clear, find out who Kara Danvers was. Girls like her went missing all the time in National City, so much so that calling her disappearance news would be generous. Only a dramatic reappearance or solved case would make the front pages, though usually an arbitrary column deep into the papers was dedicated to whichever poor sap had vanished into the city’s gaping maw of corruption. The woe of friends and family providing mild intrigue for its citizens before moving on to something more interesting like sports or fashion. Even if it took a deep dive, National City’s public library was always a good place to start. This of course meant a commute to the heart of town, the glitz and glamour that all the songs were about shining out for the world to see. For those at the top, it was the pinnacle of American living. People all over dreamed of hitting that sweet spot, chasing a destiny the city was unlikely to gift them. Those of us who lived here long enough to survive the illusion no longer looked at the bright lights, we simply see darker shadows.

Ignoring the bright signs and smiling grifters offering the world was easy. The traffic and shouted promises fell away to a dull drone in the busy city. Servers on their way to start work and the moneyed having finished it littered the sidewalks as the inevitable shift from day to night was getting into full swing. The cloudless sky smiled on everyone, a smile that was knowing for some and wicked for others. I had things to do, so I side-stepped between these lines in the same way I shimmied through the crowds. The library was on the far side of it all. The edge of middle, the knowledge that lurked behind the shining lights.

The main city was a blur of noise as I sauntered up the stone steps of the library’s entrance. The door was heavy, swinging itself shut after I made my way through. I exchanged a brief nod with the man behind the desk. The late shift and I had an understanding, a little knowledge of the city went a long way to ensuring privacy. You ask the staff here where I was or where I’ve been, you’d get ten different stories from six different people.

I was familiar with the archives, a dark room of shelves, paper and boredom. Several stations were spread out, magnifying lenses and lamps lit up each one. I picked out my favourite spot, good view of the entrance and close to the shelves with my back to the wall. For now, the place was my own. Any smell of smoke from previous inhabitants had faded leaving a strangely clean air to the place. The inevitable rustling and lack of grace followed as I picked out all the newspapers I could get from the last two months beside my station. There were a lot of blanks to fill, educated guesswork was all I had to go with. Recent job probably meant recent disappearance. Starting with today’s paper and working backwards was the order of the night. Sifting through everything for what you needed to learn or spotting some obscure details in an old article was a part of the job no-one cared to ask about. The grind didn’t match the false personality of the city, that one easy step away from the big time. Spotting patterns and coming out on top took work. This was a side of me I couldn’t let people see. Knowledge was power, making it look effortless was all part of that game. Sore eyes and tested patience was to be expected, it was the taste of cold metal with no burn from my empty hipflask that made the task difficult. The piles of read newspapers I had were neatly stacked on one side, ever growing onward as natural light faded to brightening lamps. 

I saw the name Kara Danvers crop up a few times amongst the vast stacks. The name itself was strangely uninteresting on the surface. No articles of disappearances or anything out of the ordinary sprung out. What was interesting was the context of this name. It only ever appeared in the Daily Planet. Articles weren’t about her, they were written by her. A small variation in topics, but of the dozens that had appeared over the past few months the main trend were puff-pieces about the one and only Lena Luthor. Most pieces about that particular woman were speculative nonsense about her private life. This town loved to talk and Lena Luthor’s exploits were always quite the hot topic. Some man or scandal she was involved with plastered near the front pages that always petered out to baseless claims with no evidence. As long as it got attention the press would keep on churning it out. Danvers’ articles differed from this, more akin to the day in life or personal anecdotes from the woman herself. The lack of accusation or controversy saw Danvers’ articles relegated further back with less column space to play with. Her name also stopped appearing from papers three weeks ago and onward. For now, it was neither here nor there. A more direct involvement with a Luthor and a disappeared reporter who potentially knew how to play to her strengths. To those that paid attention, people who got overly interested in the dealings of Lex Luthor had a habit of disappearing without a word. Danvers’ apparent fascination with his sister was unlikely to be a coincidence. It was enough to work with for now and if this was a dead end, I would no doubt be back at this very spot to swim through more paper. I wiped as much of the ink smudges on my fingers off as I could and looked at the clock ticking away at the end of the room. It had hit a time on the threshold of late and early. Packing away all the newspapers always felt longer than going through them all. After the age of re-shelving I bid goodnight to the staff and went out to the biting air of the still bustling city. The day’s work was done, for now it was matter of supplies and maybe getting a couple hours of sleep before the morning truly came around.

A lifeless journey back to my shady corner of the city was at least warmed with fresh cigarettes and the satisfying sloshing of a newly filled flask. The doors to my office were suspiciously co-operative this time around. A brief once over of the office saw that nothing was out of place or moved. I went through my side door and washed away the remaining ink. The water I splashed over my tired face was as much refreshment as I could be bothered with. I crashed into my unmade bed, thinking briefly on the new information I had to play with before sleep found me.

I woke up with a start, sunlight was peaking through the broken blinds and birds ignorant of my harsh headache loudly chirped at each other. I checked the time, four hours sleep was practically a record. No doubt my guy within the Daily Planet was already up and ready to tackle the day. It would be right to give him some time to settle before I inflicted myself onto his office, or at least that was what I told myself. I stared at myself in the wash basin’s mirror, I was surprisingly put together all things considered. A fresh set of clothes and I looked practically respectable. It was another cheap suit day, everyone in the National City news business liked to have a shady friend. For Jimmy Olsen, I needed to play that shady part to the fullest. A relationship where he was happy to hear what information I had to part with, but never happy to actually see me. Turning up to his office unannounced would put him in the mood to get rid of me, which meant getting what I would need to hear out of him faster. It was always fun pressing that guy’s buttons.

It was an easy enough trip, the morning was when this town came the closest to relenting. The peace was short-lived when I invited myself into the Daily Planet’s office. Even from the inoffensive lobby I could hear typewriters hammering away. I was greeted by cream-coloured walls and an unimpressed secretary giving me the once over. No glasses on this one. The other one at the desk seemed to pay me little mind.

“Can I help you, sir?” she said, the potted plants at either side of her desk were real, her smile wasn’t.

“I’ve got an appointment with Jimmy Olsen,” I said, leaning on the desk to peak at whatever she was doing to pass the time. It was mostly paperwork, phone numbers and scheduling. I did spot a book tucked away out of sight, if I didn’t have better things to be doing I’d have liked to have found out what it was. I paid attention to her again, she was flitting between pages, inevitably looking for an appointment that didn’t exist.

“I’ve got nothing in the books,” she said.

“Then let’s call this appointment off the books,” I said. She remained unimpressed.

“I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to make another appointment or try another time,” she said.

“Just get a message to Jimmy that Monarch wants to see him. If he says he ain’t interested, I’ll get out of your hair, as lovely as it is,” I said. I backed off the desk and slumped my shoulders, body language was important. Too domineering and she would tell me to leave. She tapped at the desk and weighed up her options with an impressive lack of subtlety. Most people in her position would feign politeness, my cheap suit and mannerisms invited rudeness. It played well with Daily Planet types, acting smug was as easy as breathing to them. After this deliberation of hers she grabbed a pen and squiggled down a note. She handed it off to her counterpart who promptly disappeared behind the glass door into the main building. I took a seat, my new friend keeping her suspicious eyes on me. I shifted and played with my pockets to keep her on edge, it would probably the only real excitement she got all day. Before long the man himself emerged in the lobby. Jimmy Olsen was tall, dark and handsome. Did well for himself getting into a such high position at an established paper. A little broad and the bowtie was a bit much, but he was as well liked as other journalist.

“We’ll talk outside,” he said. He was stern and strode past me. I shrugged at the irritated secretary.

“I’ll remember to book an appointment next time,” I said.

“See that you do, sir,” she said, clearly robbed of the satisfaction of getting to kick me out. I went back outside. I looked to my left and right, the sidewalks were getting busier. There was no sign of Jimmy. He must have dipped into the alley straight away. I rolled my eyes, always one for dramatics. Being the shady friend apparently meant talking in shady places. I took my time strolling round to it, enjoying the air and whistling to myself as I turned the corner. I was greeted with dumpsters and an emergency exit, this alley was trying too hard to be stereotypical. Jimmy’s arm were folded and his foot was tapping a groove into the ground. I took out a packet from my pocket and lit up a cigarette

“Well?” He said. I offered the pack his way when I approached.

“Want one?” I said.

“You know you can’t just turn up here like this,” he said.

“That’s a no then?” I said. He hesitated, then grabbed one. He used his own match to light it and took a long drag.

“You know you can’t just turn up like that,” he said.

“Worried the desk staff will think less of you?” I said.

“I have enough problems being who I am in my line of work, don’t make yourself another one of them,” he said. I shrugged.

“You know, that’s actually a fair point,” I said.

“Getting me worried in advance for what you’re about to say? That means what you’re about to say is going to be a big problem,” he said. He was going through his cigarette fast, already tapping away some ash.

“I’ve become predictable. How very careless of me,” I said. I leaned against the wall

“Make your point Monarch, is this a story or do you want something from me?” he said.

“Both. The name Kara Danvers mean anything to you?” I said. His eyes flitted away ever so briefly, enough to give my answer.

“And what if it did?” He said. I fished the photo out of my pocket, his expression dropped even more upon seeing it. Guilt was easy to spot in the soft-hearted.

“I just find it interesting that one of your boss’s own people has vanished, yet your paper has nothing to say about it. I’m sure rival print would have quite the time looking into this strange oversight,” I said. Jimmy folded his arms, he was always thought himself above the games.

“Say what you want to say, Monarch,” he said.

“My theory is a certain powerful man is using his influence to keep this Danvers disappearance quiet. Of course, a good man like yourself would like to see a nice girl like her reappear unharmed I imagine,” I said.

“If you’re asking these questions then you’re not going to stop looking for her…” he checked behind him and looked past me, as if checking for someone who may have strolled into the alley on a whim. He switched to a hushed tone “All I know for sure was that she mentioned looking deeper into Lex-Corp. I warned her off it, but she’s a stubborn one. Surprise, surprise she stops turning up at work. Whenever I ask about her, Miss.Grant tells me she’s off on assignment in Metropolis and then gives me no more detail,” he said. I stroked my chin, it at least confirmed my working theory. It gave me little else to go on.

“If you were in a position to look for her, where would you start?” I said. He thought for a moment.

“Those articles of hers were from face to face interviews with Lena Luthor, if anyone knows what’s going on it’s her,” he said.

“Oh, great. I’ll just call her up for a chat and I’m sure she’ll tell me everything,” I said.

“She’s going to be at an exclusive ball hosted at the Hilton tomorrow night. I can’t wrangle you in with the Daily Planet, too many of the wrong eyes on us. That’s the best I can give you, I don’t know any more on this that can help. I’m sorry,” he said.

“I think that should be enough. Thanks, Jimmy,” I said.

“Call ahead next time,” he said. He flicked away his cigarette butt and stomped out of the alley. I watched him leave in his huff. Must have been frustrating seeing Danvers disappear and not being able to do anything about it. I at least had solid intel now and knew I was on the right path. Now it was simply a task of arranging a meeting with the National City’s top socialite and treading on the toes of Lex-Corp, the richest corporation in the country. $500 dollars suddenly felt very stingy. This should have been a dead end and a perfectly good excuse to bail. Unfortunately, I had an avenue to make this work. I didn’t like it, but a trip to The Legion was the next order of business.


	3. The Legion

The Legion, I always thought it was a dumb name for a jazz club. Much like the music they peddled, you wouldn’t find a jazz club in National City that didn’t have something going on between the bars. Hubs of sin where anyone could throw away their worries in a blur of booze, all behind the veneer of class. The glare of fancy suits and shiny instruments outshining whatever went on under the table. This may be the truth of the place, but the biblical name felt a little on the nose. Knocking down the walls of subtlety with a name that screamed for attention from the self-righteous. The terrible name at least made its own sense when you took the club’s owner into account. Kerry O’Dox, fifth son of a Catholic family. He was almost as smart as he was egotistical. Insisted on the nickname “Brainiac” and unfortunately had enough sway to make sure it stuck. The place and man were things I liked to avoid. Yet after a day spent consolidating my research I found myself staring at that demonic display of lights. They blazed out into the evening air, somehow even more garish than the surrounding clubs.

My clothing had an unnatural feel to it, upmarket eveningwear and my one pair of unscuffed shoes was a necessity for tonight. I straightened my tie and mentally prepared myself to enter the den of arrogance. I took a deep breath and sauntered on. The band hit me first, a slow number to ease patrons out of sobriety. They knew who I was here, for whatever reason there was no hassle at the entrance and my coat was gladly taken. Either Brainiac wanted me on edge from the start or he had something up his sleeve. A smirk rose on my face, he thought the game had started. The ornate doors of the lobby opened up before me and the warmth of the jazz hall hit me. Red carpets, gold lined tables and a big stage on the far side did their job grabbing attention. The big numbers were yet to start, so plenty of guests were paying more mind to their drinks than the stage. From here on in everything was a performance, I had to scan the room with a smile on my face and swagger in my heart. The art of seeing without looking, hearing more than dulcet tones of the horn section in the rabble of bodies doing business and whatever other dark desires gripped them.

I snaked through with ease to the front of the crowded bar. The marble of it was cool to touch, I parked myself in the centre. Impossible for the bartender to ignore no matter how hard he tried. Casual and frivolous conversations were started with me by my surrounding patrons. I kept that grin, made them laugh and danced the conversational dance. All the while my eyes never left the uncomfortable bartender. Running out of excuses not to come serve me, he broke first.

“Evening, Mr.Monarch,” he said.

“Michael, it’s been a while. I’ll have the usual,” I said. He didn’t move.

“There’s the small matter of your tab, Mr.Monarch,” I reached into my pocket and pulled out fifty dollars.

“That should cover it,” I said. He hesitated and as I looked away for a moment to straighten my pocket, his eyes darted further down the room. In my periphery I saw Brainiac himself at his usual table give a slight nod. Seeing without looking.

“One old-fashioned coming up,” Michael said. For the first time of the night, my grin was genuine. He made a show of mixing the drink in front of me. Michael was a deft hand, probably the most honest person in the joint. Considering his competition, it was a meagre achievement.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Any time. So Mr.Monarch, are you here for business or pleasure?” he said. I leaned on the bar, my nice suit effortlessly sliding across marble and looked across the crowded hall to speculative looking Brainiac. I raised my glass in his direction.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” I said.

“When he has time, you’ll be called over,” he said, slinking off to serve the next person eager to whet their whistles. The Old-Fashioned hit just right, Michael never lost his touch. It was as smooth and rich as the music accompanying The Legion’s revelry. Brainiac watched over it too, his table was up in the corner for a good view of the stage and the whole joint. He was alone and had nothing on it apart from a drink of his own. It was time-honoured and predictable play, making me wait around for no reason. His house, his rules, my time was his to waste. The band’s numbers picked up in speed as the night went on, encouraging excitement after the gloomy beginnings. More drinks flowed and the crowds grew hotter. All par for the course for a night in National City. I stuck to my bar stool, happy to watch the eb and flow. I had no intention of getting caught up in it, the place of the observer was the seat of power. After a time, one of the servers dipped out from the main floor.

“Brainiac will see you now,” he said. He beckoned me to follow. We snaked between the round tables, getting close to the action of the stage and approaching the best seat in Brainiac’s lair. He leaned hard into the jazz look with his white jacket, red cummerbund and black, slicked-back hair. His side of the table was a full booth, I was offered a low chair facing away from the stage. The man of small stature wanted to look big, it was bravado I didn’t care for. I had to at least pretend to be on his level, I took my gestured seat and placed it on the other side so I could face the stage. He was now to my left, grinning away at my approach. The grin grew wider when my escort whispered something in his ear, no doubt telling him I was $10 short on my tab.

“Monarch, Monarch, Monarch. Welcome back to my humble abode,” he said, his pearly whites flashed against the stage lights.

“Brainiac, kind of you to welcome me in,” I said.

“I have to admit, I was impressed by the audacity of it,” he said.

“Audacious or not, I’m sure your flunky told you we’re square,” I said. He turned to the stage, things were starting to hush as the night’s big act was preparing to start. He turned back to me, that stupid smile having never left his face.

“I wish I could tell you that was the case. However, you’re still down ten bucks,” he said. I shuffled uncomfortably and folded my arms. He drummed the table and swivelled my way. “I tell you what, I’m in a generous mood. Tell me something worth $10 and then we can talk as equals.”

I breathed out from my nose loudly and avoided looking at him for a moment to really sell it.

“I may have heard here or there that Floyd Lawton is coming to town,” I said. Brainiac keenly leaned forward, if the man had any patience for knowledge, he’d have found this out himself within the next day anyway.

“Here to see anyone in particular?” He asked.

“Who’s to say? I imagine that sort of information would be worth a lot more than ten dollars,” I shrugged, leaned back in my chair and took sip of my drink. It was always important to kick back, full acceptance of this little power game he was playing might have clued him in as to what I was up to. Instead, he smiled to himself an raised his glass.

“Well now my friend, we can deal. What do you need from me?” he said. He was in a good mood, satisfied with himself to have won the duel. I looked suitably irritated, but quietly pleased with this dumbass’ ignorance. People are always more amiable when they think they hold all the cards and prone to generosity when they think they’ve already won. Easiest way to outsmart a genius is to let them think you’re a fool.

“Funnily enough, it’s not you I need…”

I’d always known to avoid the big act. Unfortunately, the size of this job meant I had no choice but to fly close to the sun. The hush of the audience reached its climax, the lights went low. That’s when she glided on to the stage. Her red dress sparkled in the spotlight, a leg playfully skirting a slit in its side. I made sure to slyly check my watch before she reached centre stage.

“It’s her.” I said.

She was the only reason this club had the standing it did. Imra Saturn, the kind of dame who could capture a man’s dreams with a mere swoon or break his heart with a cold shoulder. Her microphone stood silent, she gently took it up and scanned the whole room with a sultry smile. The pianist began to play and the bluesy chords of the band softly rung around the hall. Not a soul looked at anything but her when she started to sing. Her voice was like hearing a soothing promise you didn’t know you needed. It touched the mind to the point she could ask of you to do anything and you’d be helpless to say no. The song picked up and the subtleties of her voice turned to power, the whole room filled with a buzz of excited energy. She could have been up there anywhere between three minutes and three hours. Not a single man or woman in this enraptured audience could tell you how long they were there. Lost in a daze of jazz and applause. I wish I could say I was immune to these charms, that the control she had over everyone’s minds when she was on stage was something I noticed from the seat of the observer. When some senses finally returned to me and the room erupted in thunderous applause. Whoops and cheers for an encore sounded out, she thanked everyone and sauntered off-stage. The energy of excitement turned to disappointment at her exit. The lights came up and the band’s set became more filler. I checked my watch again, ten-minute set. I may not be immune to her charms, I just know how to cheat my way around them. Brainiac himself shook his head back into the room. He laughed at me.

“Many better men have tried and failed to impress Miss.Saturn. Didn’t think you were the type to attempt it,” he said.

“I ain’t dumb enough to try anything like that. I just want a conversation,” I said. Brainiac smiled to himself, still in that same good mood I set up for him.

“You know what. I’ll bring her to you, if anything your attempts will be entertaining,” he said. Brainiac stood up with a swagger in his step. The rest the room were excitedly talking about the performance they’d had the privilege of being a part of, many more were going back to the bar. Loading up in vain hope for an encore that wasn’t going to come. After a few minutes, Brainiac re-emerged with Miss.Saturn walking by his side. Her heels hit the main floor as patrons stole looks her way. Unimpressed expression, hips swaying with each slow step. When the duo reached the table, Brainiac slid into his booth. Miss.Saturn made a point of having separate chair brought for her. No words needed of course, merely hand gesture for a server to instantly put it in place. She sat down, crossed her legs and hit me with that heart-breaking stern look. She was better at playing the game than even I was, I knew everything she did was calculated but still had to pinch myself to not fall prey to the tricks.

“Miss.Saturn, this is the man I told you about,” Brainiac said. She said nothing, simply flicking her hair and keeping that intense gaze. I held it, though I had to ignore the pain of still pinching myself to stay vaguely grounded in the moment.

“Short set,” I said. Her expression was unmoved.

“You know what they say, leave them wanting more,” she said, even her speaking voice had a melodic charm.

“Ten minutes, ten hours. With a voice like that you’ll always have people wanting more,” I said. A grin twitched in the corner of her mouth.

“Leave,” she said. I leaned back in my seat.

“Well, you tried. Can’t fault the effort,” Brainiac said. I raised an eyebrow. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her satin-gloved hand, her eyes never broke away from me.

“Not him, you,” she said. It was a real shame I had to pay so much attention to the dame. I would love to have savoured the look on Brainiac’s face. He was smart enough not to protest and left in short order. I was left alone with her, she had a way of looking at me like she was the only person in the room. The lights of the hall and the joy of the other patrons faded to quiet white noise. Her voice was like an echo in a cave, it resonated with every part of my being.

“Well, Mr.Monarch. I’m all ears,” she said. I swallowed hard, I had hoped to use Brainiac as a buffer instead of finding myself on this island. My instinct was to light a cigarette, take some time and calm the nerves. I thought better of it, the best singers rarely liked such habits. 

“Quite the privilege, Miss.Saturn,” I said. She shifted round into Brainiac’s booth, I could smell her sweet perfume. I’d piqued her fickle interest by resisting her charms, I couldn’t lose that now by reacting to her closeness. I watched intently to try and suss her out as fast as my racing mind could manage. No doubt she knew what I was about in one glance.

“Do you want me to guess why you’re here?” she said.

“What would that guess be?” I said.

“Most want to steal me away so they can have their shot at the king. Even take his place…” she trailed off and looked over to Brainiac, he was doing the rounds with all manner of guests.

“I have no intention of becoming a king. I don’t want to become the man everyone guns for. Besides, everyone knows that queens are for more powerful,” I said. Her leg started to rub up against mine, I didn’t flinch.

“You strike me as a man who moves the pieces instead of sitting on the board. You want to move me as part of your game. The question is where?” She said.

“There’s a Ball in the Hilton tomorrow night and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve lost my invite,” I said.

“Using me to the clear way for some gambit, I’m sure,” she said.

“Something along those lines,” I said.

“I’m hearing how I can help you. What’s my effort worth to me?” she said. I had to stop tensing up. I racked my brain, this was a woman that every man wanted and all women wanted to be. Money would mean nothing to her and I had no stature to offer. There was only one thing I had of worth, I was just lucky it happened to be the most valuable commodity in the city.

“I’m a man that knows things, the things I don’t know I always I found out. One job, gratis. Assuming it’s reasonable of course,” I said. She pouted at me.

“But Mr.Monarch, I’m such an unreasonable gal,” she said. I pinched harder, any give and she’dd hang me out to try.

“Do we have a deal?” I said. She took off her satin glove and placed her hand lazily in front of me. I took it gently, a wry half grin rose on her mouth. I kissed it and sat back.

“If you’re late, I might just go in without you,” she said. She didn’t need a time, hell she probably already had an invite to tomorrow’s soiree. I had my in at least. She stood up with a knowing smile. I could hear the room again as she swaggered off, the lights seemed to get brighter with each step away she took. She left me there, I breathed out for what felt like the first time since she laid eyes on me. I slumped my shoulders, just like that I was in her debt. Real debt. Nothing like the falsities I manufactured with Brainiac. I’d been played like a damned fiddle, a harsh reminder to never get too comfortable in National City.


End file.
